Welcome Home, Son
by Co-Quill-Eon
Summary: Sam's departure and return is seen from a different pair of eyes and the Winchester siblings struggle to keep their family together while trying to keep themselves from ripping apart at the seams.
1. Chapter 1

"-a scholarship. Full ride." I catch the end of his sentence over the rustle of the fast food bag as soon as I open the motel door. I pause on the threshold, seriously contemplating just setting the food down inside the doorway and backing out slowly, but I make the mistake of looking inside of the room, and immediately meet Dean's eyes where he sits at the old round wooden table. The look he gives me lets me know that if I dare back out he will come after me, and after looking away and taking a deep breath, I slip quietly through the space I created and shut the door behind me with a small click.

I ignore Sam and Dad, focusing on Dean's hands where they rest on the table, but they make my nerves feel on edge too, the way they're clasped so tightly together. Setting the bag down, I use two fingers to push it towards him. "Eat," I mumble, but I might as well have said nothing at all because he doesn't even respond and a quick glance up shows that his eyes are back on our brother and father.

I can _feel _the hostility coming off of both of them in waves and it makes my skin itch, but I ignore it, and them, as best as I can, and shrug off my leather jacket, balling it up to use as a pillow when I flop onto the old couch.

This argument is a long time coming.

"Dad," Sammy tries again, but my father says nothing. Sammy is bigger than him, bigger than all of us, and even though I'm the youngest by four minutes, he can sound so _young_ sometimes. I don't know how he does it, or if he even knows that he is, but his pitch changes and suddenly your heart is breaking. "Dad, you don't have to pay for anything, and it's a great school-"

"I know what a full ride means Sam." Dad's voice is sharp and it makes my hands twitch where they rest on my stomach. I clasp them together like Dean. "And I know that Stanford is a great school. I just don't think now is the best time to-"

"When would a good time be? This is the time, _this _is when I'm _supposed _to go." Sam's voice shakes slightly, his frustration seeping into his words. He takes a deep breath. "I want a change."

"A change?" Dad's incredulous response makes me want to close my eyes. So I do. "The world doesn't _change, _Sam. These things aren't going to just go away because you aren't hunting them anymore. Your place is here, with me and your brother and sister-"

"I don't _want _to be here anymore!" None of us jump at his sudden exclamation but my eyes open up again, and my hands clench around each other. "I... don't want _this _to be my life for forever. I don't want to keep moving from motel to motel. I had to get this," he waves a piece of paper around that I hadn't noticed before, "delivered to Bobby's house! I didn't know where we'd be by the time they sent it." He lets his arm drop heavily. "I don't want this anymore. I want..."

He doesn't finish his sentence but he doesn't need to because Dean finally stands up, shoves himself away from the table, and finishes it for him. "You want to leave us." His words are harsh, cruel, when he spits them out, and I want to close my eyes again, but I can't this time. "Is that it, Sammy? You want to leave, go around _pretending _that you're normal? That you aren't a Hunter and there aren't things out there in the dark killing people? Possessing people, and destroying lives, and ruining families-"

"Exactly!" Sam rounds on Dean now, and the piece of paper makes noise as he crushes it in his fist. "That is _exactly _what I want to do. I don't want to spend the rest of my life fighting."

"No one does," Dad shouts. "But we _have _to. It's who we are-"

"It's not who I am. I'm not like you." The utter silence at his words weighs the air down, makes it too heavy. We all know Sammy isn't like us, that he's different, but it was never a bad thing. Not until he's said it aloud, and somehow made it sound like _we're _the ones who are wrong. That there's something wrong with me, and Dad, and Dean for wanting to hunt. For wanting to find what killed mom...

I swallow and shift my tense shoulders, and Dean's eyes are locked on me again, ablaze. "What? You aren't going to say anything?" Sam turns and Dad slides his gaze from his tense back to me, and I'm frozen, only able to literally bite my tongue. Not too hard, but just enough to remind myself that I really don't want to speak right now. Not that I know what to say.

Dean rolls his eyes, and looks as if he's on the verge of gritting out that now is not the time to stay quiet, but Sam moves again, and my eyes are drawn down to his legs, where behind lay his bags.

His packed bags.

His mind is made up.

The thought hits me like a brick to the chest.

He never intended to even stay after this conversation is over and done with. It doesn't matter _what _me, or Dad, or even Dean says to him, Sam knows what he's going to do, and I'll tell Dean this later when he attacks me, demanding why I didn't speak up.

Tongue between my teeth, I pull my jacket out from under my head, slip it on, and walk out the door without looking any of them in the eyes.

I walk, and walk, and walk, and it's late afternoon, nearly evening by the time I stop. I'm in a park. The kind with a huge sandbox, and a seesaw, and a merry go round, and colorful swings. I don't know why I decide to stop here, as parks depress the ever living shit out of me. It's not that hard to remember that you didn't really have a childhood when you pass a park full of kids screaming and laughing, oblivious to the terrors that await them.

Luckily for me, the park is empty, and I like to think it's because they all got called into dinner simultaneously, and not because they've been inside the whole day watching television and forgot the park is even here.

I trudge through the sand, still damp from the spring rain, and settle onto a green swing. The wind blows, as if it's giving me that first push, and I smile to myself before pushing off. I let my eyes close after the fifth pump of my legs and the fresh smelling air rushes by me, and my hair flutters light around my head like a halo, and for a few minutes I forget that I am who I am. I pretend I'm seven again, and instead of learning how to shoot and clean Dad's pearl-handle, I'm in this park, or another park, maybe one near our old house, and Mom's pushing me, while she shouts for Dad to watch Dean because he likes to cause mischief, and Sam is on the swing next to me, propelling himself, because he's always been bigger and stronger...

I know that he's here even before I begin to slow my momentum, I don't know how. I never do. I can't attribute it to the twin thing because it happens with Dean too, but by the time I stop soaring into the air, and open my eyes, Sam is standing in front of me, his hands in his pockets.

I don't know how he found me, but I don't ask, just tighten my hands on the metal links of the swing and look down at my feet. I catch sight of his bags, again, and my heart clenches, again. He moves forward and nudges my small foot with his huge one. I look away, to my right, out into the busy street and setting sun.

"I wasn't going to stay away. I just... need to do this." I don't answer or even look in his direction, but his words float into my ear and bang around inside of my skull.

If this were a book, I would be Sam. Or rather, I would be in Sam's place. The only girl in a family of men, raised to fight, longing for a way out. But this isn't a book, and we're real people, and this is who I am; I'm a Hunter. It's what I do and what I'm great at, and Sammy is the one who's dying to get away. It's Sam who wants to leave while I'm the one who is content to stay.

Not that it's any surprise, that he's itching to leave, but it still hurts. A lot. Even if none of us admit it. Hell, if anyone were to admit it, it would be Sammy and I'm sure as hell that he's not going to let that out anytime soon. Not when he's so unsure of his standing with any of us.

"Dad told me- he said that if I leave not to come back." I look at him now, through the hair the wind has blown across my eyes, and he's trying to keep it together but he's always been the sensitive one, and he's not doing such a hot job. His eyes are a little too bright and it makes my skin feel too small. I've never been good with this kind of stuff, and he seems to recall this (or maybe my expression gives me away) but he clears his throat and looks away, and when he looks back his eyes have lost their shine.

I stand, and stuff my hands into my pockets, mimicking his stance. "I could come back and see you. Dad and Dean, they-" His throat works and I look up at him and it hits me again how much bigger than me he is. People never believe us when we tell them that we're twins mainly for this reason. 6'4 and 5'4 isn't anything close to peas in a pod. "But yeah," he tries again. "I'll call you when I can and..." he trails off in the face of my silence and suddenly, like a tidal wave, I'm so angry at him. I hate him.

He'll _call. _He'll call me from his cushy college dorm, with his friends in the background making a whole bunch of noise while he tells me about his classes. Dean didn't go to college, and even though I graduated with top grades this year, same as Sam, I'm not going gallivanting across the nation to sit in a classroom and allow innocent people to get murdered in their beds.

But Sam doesn't step away from me in the wake of my sudden shift in mood, and I'm not surprised that he hasn't. Unlike Dean, despite my impassive expression, he can't gauge my changes in mood the second it occurs.

He's nothing like Dean.

I watch him fidget and give a small shrug almost to himself.

"I'll miss you, Sarah. I love you, you know that."

I hate him and swallow the lump in my throat. I look into his open face for a few more seconds before sliding my eyes away. "Bye, Sam," I say quietly, content to let my words get swallowed by the wind. I walk around his body, leaving him to stare at the empty swing set. My stomach gives a violent toss that can only be attributed to having no lunch. I walk away and wonder if Dean's already polished off the whole bag of food. I wonder if it will rain again here tomorrow and where we'll be next week. I don't wonder if Sam has finally let those tears fall, or if he's still standing there in front of the empty forest green swing where I've left him. I don't wonder if he will really call or if he'll make it as a doctor or a lawyer. I skip across a busy street, holding a hand up in thanks as a car slows, eager to get back to my family.

I wonder if we'll have a job tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Four Years Later...**

**=..=..=**

"I'm going to go get Sam."

I don't respond immediately, choosing instead to cradle the cell phone between my head and shoulder, and picking up my handgun. It's a habit really, carrying this thing everywhere; what I really needed for tonight is that sawed off shotgun.

Do I even _have_ enough shells of rock salt-

"Sarah." Dean's sharp tone cuts through my thoughts.

"I don't know why you think you need to do that." I say into the phone. It's more of a mumble than anything else, but I know Dean hears me because he answers right away.

"Dad's been gone for weeks."

I turn in a slow circle, scanning every surface until I spot the shotgun resting innocuously on top of the television set. I stride across the small room, making sure to step over the gallon of water. "Dad's always gone for weeks," I say and pick up the gun, along with the rosary laying underneath it.

"And he hasn't called."

I set the gun on the bed and kneel down to pop off the cap off of the gallon. "He's probably in a spot where he has no reception." I mumble a quick prayer, fingering the beads, and when I'm done, drop them into the jug.

"For weeks?"

"It's happened before, Dean." I sigh and straighten up, only to back up and sit on the bed. I pull the gun into my lap and snap it open. Empty.

"You getting ready for tonight?"

"Mmmhm," I hum.

"You're sure you're going to be alright?"

"It's just a ghost Dean. I have a little more research to do, but I'm sure it'll be an in and out thing. Dig a grave, burn some bones, baby stuff." I twist around, looking for a box of shells and a portable baggie of salt. I usually keep them together...

"Yeah, well, you know how I feel about you doing this kind of stuff alone."

I drop to my knees again and lift up the bed skirt. "Twenty one, Dean." I remind him, and switch the phone to one hand so I can reach under the bed where the box and salt have somehow come to be. "Not a baby anymore."

"Yeah..." he trails off and I stretch my fingers, tips grazing the box and edge of the baggie. "I'm heading there tomorrow."

"Dean, I'll be fine-"

"To go get Sam."

"Oh." I finally grab a hold of my prize, and inch out from underneath the bed. We're both quiet as I switch the phone back to my shoulder, and open the box of shells. "I still don't see why you think that's necessary." I grab everything, and move to the table. I sit down and switch Dean to speaker phone. "If you're really worried about Dad, just wait for me to finish this job. I'll be done in two days, three tops."

"We don't _have _three days." His anxiety laces his words.

I roll a piece of paper into a funnel shape and stick it into the end of a casing, pouring a handful of salt into the space. "You think you're going to find Dad in a _day?" _

"What? No..." he pauses. "I don't know."

I stick the top onto the case and sigh. "Fine, Dean. Do what you want. You can _try,_" I put emphasis on the last word to show how unlikely I think the outcome of that would be, "to get Sam to help find Dad, but don't be surprised if he doesn't jump up from his cushy, cozy, college life and jump into the Impala."

"Sarah, it's Dad-"

"Yeah, and it was Dad, _and_ you, _and_ me, four years ago and he still hauled ass, so excuse me if I don't think he'll find it in his oh so wonderful heart to help us out. Not that we even need help. Dad is fine."

"We don't know that."

"Yeah well," I cap off two more cases, "either way I don't see why you need to involve Sam. At all. He's not in this anymore."

"He's still family."

I shove the four cases into the gun and snap it shut sharply, irritated. "Whatever, Dean. You're going to do what you want anyway."

"Damn right." I can hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes the corners of my lips turn up as well.

"I've got shit to do," I say, not unkindly, still smiling. "I'll talk to you later. Oh, and don't get worried if I don't answer when you call. That house has freaky intense waves."

"Alright." I hear his car door shut in the background, and the engine rev.

"Alright, talk to you later."

"Be careful."

"Bye, Dean."

"I mean it."

"BYE, Dean."

I shut the phone, and look around the motel room and groan aloud to myself. He's going to Stanford. To get Sam. Who wouldn't be caught dead with us, let alone to look for Dad, who isn't even missing. Dean is setting himself up to get hurt, and there is nothing I can do about it. I don't even think this is about Dad. Well, partly, but mainly I think this is Dean's way to get Sam back into the business.

He's been missing him lately, I can tell in the way that he gets so quiet at random times, and the other day I saw him staring at the toy solider stuck in the back door, an odd expression playing on his face.

I scrub at my own face with my hands, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until bright lights burst in the darkness.

I let my hands fall back onto the table, and I pick up my cell to check the time. I had five hours to finish filling up these cases and research the old Willkans house to make sure I know what I am dealing with.

I sigh again and pick up some more salt.

**=..=..=**

I'm still trying to clean my leg up when the frantic pounding starts at the motel door. My hand holding the bottle of rubbing alcohol shakes at the sudden noise causing too much of the liquid to fall into my open wound.

"AHHhhhhwhoisit?" I call from the bathroom, gritting my teeth.

"Sarah! Sarah, open the door!" I roll my eyes at Dean's panicked voice, but I brace myself on the bathroom sink and stand up anyway because he _will _kick the door down.

"I'm coming!" I call, and hobble as quickly as I can out of the bathroom and toward the door. I pause to roll up the end of my jeans so it won't fall into the cut, and call out again. "Coming, coming..." I take a breath and wince at a new pain in my side and take the chain off the door and turn the lock. Dean tries to enter immediately, but I raise my hand to his chest, silently asking him to wait so I can hobble back to the bed. He lets me get a few feet away before he sets in.

"What the fuck, I've been calling you for days-"

"Yeah, well, I got distracted." I drop down heavily onto the bed.

"Distracted." Dean deadpans and pulls a chair from around the table to sit in front of me. "It kept going straight to voice mail-"

"I need to get a new one." I wince as he takes my calf into his hand and lays my foot on his lap. "That one is smashed."

"What the hell happened?" He twists my leg slightly and I inhale sharply.

"Where the hell have _you _been?" I counter "It's been a fucking week-"

"I got distracted." His brow furrows as he examines my leg. "You need stitches," he says finally.

I nod toward the other side of the bed where the first aid kit is.

"With?" I ask in regards to his mimicked reply a few moments ago.

"Lady in White."

My jaw drops. "Nuh uh." Dean smirks. "Lucky bastard. They only appear to men, I'll never see one-" It's when I look away from his hands and to the door that I finally notice him.

I blink.

I don't know how long he's been standing in the doorway, or why I didn't notice him right away, but there Sammy is. He looks different. Of course he does, it's been four years but still, he looks... like he's someone new. Someone new who happens to look exactly like my twin brother. He's staring at my bleeding leg with a mix of fascination and horror, and I can't help but roll my eyes. As if he's never seen a bleeding wound before. It's hardly festering.

"I found him."

I jerk my eyes away from Sam to glare at Dean who has spoken around the length of thread between his teeth. "So you did," I mumble. I don't have the time or inclination to even deal with this right now. I put my brother's entirely unexpected reappearance on to the metaphorical back-burner in my mind, but I do take the time to level a stare at him, and say, quite seriously, "Your hair looks ridiculous."

Dean gives a snort of mirth. "You clean it?" he gestures toward my wound with his head. I nod, and as he strings the needle with the thread I flop back onto my back and reach up to grab a pillow. I place it over my face to muffle out my exclamations of pain. I _hate _getting stitches_._

A few minutes and thirty two stitches later, I breathe in deeply before removing the pillow from my face and sit up on my elbows.

"Now what happened?"

"I burned the wrong bones." At Dean's raised eyebrows I quickly hurry on. "I had the right idea, I burned the broad's and the husband's, but it turns _out, _she was nailing her cousin and _he _was the one who was haunting with her."

"So you dug three graves all on your own?"

I shrug. "Yeah, but get this; they followed me. Or at least the cousin did. I didn't know they could do that."

Dean gives me an annoyed look and sets my foot gently to the ground. "Yes, you did. You know poltergeists can latch on. You probably tipped it off when his partner in crime went up into flames."

I shrug again, irritated. "Whatever. Anyway, that last grave was just shooting rounds while trying to dig. Worst two hours of my fucking life. I'm surprised the police didn't show up."

"I knew I shouldn't have let you do this by yourself," he mumbles to himself.

"Shut up. It was an easy mistake to make." I raise up fully on hands and move towards the end of the bed. Using Dean's shoulder as a brace, I get to my feet and hobble over towards the door. I ignore Sam, because really, I can't even begin to imagine talking to him after so long. I have so much to say while simultaneously having nothing _at all _to say to him. He moves out of the way when I bend to snatch up my bag of clean clothes. "I'm hungry." I say to Dean when I turn around, and limp past Sam to head towards the bathroom. "I want, like a double bacon cheeseburger and fries-"

"Where-" Dean begins, but I'm not done yet.

"And a huge coke. No ice. You know what, get me two cokes-"

"Okay-"

"And a coconut crème pie. Like the whole pie."

"How are you not huge?"

"Because I outrun dead things and dig three fucking graves a day." I stop for a moment behind the chair he sits in. Placing my palm on his forehead, I tilt his head back gently and place a kiss on his skin. "Really, I'm fine," I murmur, lips grazing his hairline. I meet his eyes upside down, and when he doesn't smile, I scrunch my nose. A reluctant grin crosses his face, and I let go of him with a shout of victory. "Oh, yeah! Got smile, ladies and gentlemen! Totally putting it in my pocket."

I continue my way to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. "There's a diner, like, ten minutes down the road that has all that stuff, so hurry up," I call through the wood.

I tug off my shirt and throw it in a corner. "She hasn't changed at all," I hear Sam say through the thin walls. Coming from him, I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I look at myself in the mirror, and wait for Dean's answer. He doesn't right away; I hear him rise from his seat, and his keys jingle as he pulls them out of his pocket.

Finally, after a few moments- "Yeah, actually, she has."

I smile at my reflection as I hear them leave.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam and I have the same smile.

We have the same mouth, with the same straight teeth, and the same dimples. While my nose is my own (small and straight) we have the same huge, slightly pointed ears and the same thick brown hair that curls obscenely at the ends no matter what the weather. But it's out eyes that really show our striking resemblance. The colors differ slightly (he has irises that are a sunburst of gold and green while I share Dean's dark murky green) but it hardly matters because our eyes are identical in shape, and are by far the most expressive feature we posses, giving away our moods at a glance, weather we like it or not.

Of course Sam loves it. Loves the fact that he can twitch an eyebrow, or wrinkle his forehead and open his eyes real wide like he does and gets whatever he wants. Dad and Dean always fall for it, but it doesn't work on me – and I _should _be immune anyway, right? After all, I do it enough in the mirror, and on jobs where I need access to confidential files to be used to it by now. And, I would never admit it to Sammy, but sometimes I use it on Dean to convince him to stay in a nicer motel room every once in a while. But I remember when I used to hate it – hate how Dad and Dean could look at me once and see that I was upset when I thought I was hiding it well. Hated that they could tell, even though all I wanted was for everyone to think that I was alright, that I was as tough as the guys…

So me and Sammy, we look alike and have these crazy expressive eyes, but that's where the similarities end, abruptly, like a dead end.

I don't know if it's because I used to look up to him as a kid (hell, I still look up to him now) and would wear his over-sized leather jacket to bed, but I move like Dean. I talk like Dean, think like Dean – 'two sides of the same coin' Dad says, and every time he does I get this warm feeling in my gut and silly smile on my face.

Thing is, me and Sam's relationship, or lack thereof, used to make me feel cheated. I'd watched enough of those stupid daytime talk shows in random motel rooms to know that twins are supposed to have some special… link, or something. Like that freaky ability to know if the other is hurt, or in trouble, or trapped in well, but Sam and I never had that. And, yeah, for a while I felt cheated (leave it to me to get a twin I didn't feel super connected to like Oprah said we were supposed to be) until I realized that it really didn't matter if I couldn't close my eyes and telekinetically let him know that Lassie was on her way. It didn't matter that Sam and I were two totally different people because I had another brother who happened to fill that spot. And even though Dean's a few years older, it never really causes a problem unless he sees me chatting up a cute guy at a bar, or if I want to do a hunt by myself.

But despite all of this, despite the fact that Sam and I aren't the ideal twins, and I haven't seen him for a little under four years, I still know him better than anyone is this whole world. Except maybe Dean. And I know something is wrong as I watch him pick at his food.

He's tense, which is to be expected considering the circumstances, but it's still setting off little alarms in my head; he's giving off energy similar to that of a coiled spring – like he's ready to go off on something or somebody and needs little to no provocation. And he's trying to hide it, but his jumping leg and tight shoulders are dead giveaways.

I wait until Dean has swallowed the fries he's stolen from my wrapper before unfolding my legs from where they were under my chin and asking, "Dean, can I talk to you for a second? Outside?"

Sam's leg stops jumping and his whole body, if possible, gets even more tense, and I know that at this exact moment he's reconsidering coming back at all. I push away the slightly guilty feeling that laps at my insides; I honestly don't know what he expected from me – maybe Dean has spun him this glorious tale of forgiveness and shit for deserting us, but that place in my chest that felt as if it were being torn open when Sam declared that he wasn't like us has yet to stitch itself back together.

I don't wait for Dean to answer me, choosing instead to just get up, walk around the table, and out the motel door. The chilly November air makes me shiver and I pull my damp hair away from my face, scrunching it between my fingers to rid it of any excess water. When Dean comes outside, I reach around him, pull the door closed, and walk a few doors down.

"What?" I glare at his 'really, Sarah?' expression. "You know he has hearing like a goddamn bat."

Dean just shakes his head and picks at the shoulder of my pajama top. "Nice PJ's. The frolicking puppies theme is great, really it is."

"I know," I ignore his sarcasm. "And don't knock em till you try em, they're really warm. Anyway, what's up with him?"

"What do you mean?" I roll my eyes at his obvious attempt at playing dumb.

"Stop." He opens his mouth to insist, but I let my eyelids lower half-mast, and fold my arms across my chest, and he sighs. "Just tell me."

He sighs in this put upon way that he's so good at doing. "His girlfriend." I wait, but he doesn't continue, and I briefly wonder why before asking.

"What about her? She dump him or something?"

His shoulders shift, and he seems to decide something to himself before answering. "She… died."

"Oh." Well, I wasn't expecting that. I was expecting something like he failed a major test, or was itching to get back to his life at college, but I wasn't expecting _that _and the guilt that edged around my conscience grows in size. "Wow. I mean… when?"

"Two days ago."

I feel my eyes grow bigger. "Oh my- how?" Dean shifts again, and looks off of the motel balcony into some trees that make up the small forest that blocks the view of the highway. I try again. "Dean-"

"Like mom." He clears his throat. "She, uh, died like mom, on the ceiling, and the fire and… everything."

My jaw clenches, the guilt drying up as my arms tighten around my stomach, and I look off into the distance as well. Now I know why Dean didn't want to tell me, he knew what I would think. What I would say. And I do say it. "So, _now _he wants to fight?" I feel Dean look at me, but I don't meet his gaze, and my jaw works, convincing itself not to open wide and let out a scream of utter frustration and hurt. "So, when it happened to _Mom_, he wasn't like us, and we were the freaks for trying to figure out what killed her, to _find _what killed her, but the second it happens to someone he actually _cares _about-"

"He cares about Mom-"

My snort of incredulous, bitter laughter, cuts him off. "Yeah, right." Dean steps closer, and I shiver as a gust of wind stirs my hair around my shoulders and sweeps over my bare feet. "Is that why he came?" I look up at Dean now. "He didn't even come for Dad, did he? He came because someone he _cares _about got herself killed, and he figures we'll be his best chance at catching whatever it is that did it to her."

"No." He shakes his head slightly. "He heard the tape, the message Dad left me."

"What message?" I squint up at him. "Dad left a message? What did he say? Is he alright?" I didn't realize how worried I am about Dad until this moment, when Dean is saying he left a message so worrying that it dragged Sam kicking and screaming back to us.

"I don't know. It was a whole bunch of feedback and…" he runs his hands through his hair and looks away, and then back down at me. "We heard the White Woman on the tape and… look it doesn't matter. I mean, it _does_, that's why Sam came. Because Dad needs our help-"

"You're lying." And he is, I can tell by the way he keeps scratching his forehead with his thumb. "That's why he helped at first, helped you with the White Woman, but he actually got in that car with you and came _here, _to _us_, because of what happened to that _girl_." I spit the last word out like a curse and Dean stays quiet. I bite the inside of my lip, lift my chin, and clear my throat. "I'm going to tell him he can go." Dean's eyes snap to mine, and I see the mild panic in his eyes, but I continue speaking. "That we don't need his help, that he can find whatever it is by himself-."

"What?" Dean puts his hands on my shoulders. "No, Sarah, c'mon-"

"No, really, I'm going to." I insist. "Or at least ask him why the _fuck _he thinks we _care _about what happened to that girl. Why he thinks we should help him look for her killer when he didn't even want to look for Mom's-"

"Sarah-"

The tears are prickling at my eyes now, and I clear my clogged throat but it doesn't seem to work. "Why is that girl more important than us, Dean?" I can't help asking, and something in my voice causes him to wrap his arms around me and suddenly I'm engulfed in his familiar scent of leather, sandalwood, and what smells like French fries. I calm down immediately.

"It's not like that," he says quietly into my hair, and I know I must have been on the edge of 'far gone' because we don't hug, and I don't cry, and he only hugs me when I'm about to cry. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath as he runs a soothing palm up and down the length of my back. "He cares, about you, and me, and Dad, and Mom. He wants to help us find Dad, and find whatever killed Mom… and Jess." I assume that Jess is the girlfriend, but I don't really care at the moment. I bury my face into his knit shirt, and he holds onto me until my breathing straightens out, and he thinks I won't begin to fly off the handle again. He pulls back, and I wipe my eyes on my sleeve of happy puppies pretending that this breakdown never happened.

I clear my throat and this time it takes. "So do we have any leads on where Dad is?"

"I've got his journal." He says. "I found it in this random motel room. He had salt everywhere..." I want to hug him again, just for going along with forgetting my mini meltdown. He turns and we begin to walk back to the room. "I'll show it to you when we get back inside. We need Sam to help figure stuff out."

He must feel my body tense slightly at his words, because when we get to the room door, he turns back around and puts his hand on the nape of my neck. "Just… take it easy okay?"

He means to take it easy on Sam, to think before I start throwing around accusations and hurtful comments like I am wont to do when I'm stressed like this. I don't say anything, and he rubs the nape of my neck with his thumb. I hate to make the promise, but I nod stiffly, and shrug his hand away as I open the motel door.

Sam is sitting where we left him, and I don't look at him when I walk across the room and drop down onto the bed. I don't know if he sees my red rimmed eyes, or if the wind carried any of my diatribe his way, but I couldn't care less on both accounts.

"Where's the journal Sammy?" Dean asks quietly.

"In the bag," he murmurs, and I hear Dean close the motel door before picking up the bag and going through the contents. I stare at the ceiling, ignoring one brother as the anger simmers in my veins, only really kept in check because Dean asked it of me, and I'm just plain too tired, with my aching shoulder blades and throbbing leg. The bed dips as Dean sits on it, and I slide under the covers, turning over to stare at his back. They begin to discuss the the contents of the journal, but with Dean blocking Sam from my vision I can pretend it's just the two of us, still, and he's just talking to himself as usual, trying to figure out what it all means.

As my temper fades my eyelids droop. Dean shifts again, and I move forward until I can feel his body heat through the sheets, and my fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt. I fall asleep to murmurs about recordings and numbers, and the feeling of Dean leaning briefly into my touch.


End file.
